Letters Home
by Ladyhawke 620 - airwolf addict
Summary: So often, we wonder what is really beneath the surface.  Here's my attempt to give a glimpse into what Hawke, Dom and Cait might've been thinking...
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer - Story contains original characters from the series Airwolf by Donald Belisarius. No copyright infringement is intended and I make no profit from this piece. Story is written by Ladyhawke 620.

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_Thanks for the idea and inspiration for the story go to Maaike. May the others go so well...

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Letters Home -

Dom's Letter-

Sighing, Dominic Santini tossed his red satin ball cap on the battered metal desk in the back of his office. It'd seen better days. _Heck, truth of the matter was, __he'd __seen better days._

He raked a thick hand through his flyaway grey strands, leaning against the desk even as he slumped to a seat in the chair beside it.

Fact of the matter was, String was hurting. Oh, his young friend might never cop to it, might never admit to it, but it was there, lurking like some ravening creature in the depths, seeking to devour him.

Vaguely, he wondered what it'd take to break him, to shatter that iron determination that'd hauled him all the way home from the depths of that hellhole in 'Nam and home again, made him the man he was today. A strong man, an honest man. And one with enough armor-plating around his heart that no one might ever get in.

You didn't raise a son twenty-something years and not have some idea what he was thinking. And Hawke was his son, or as close to it as one could get without blood.

_And he didn't like what he was thinking one bit…_

Gabrielle's death had shaken him, rocked him to the core. But it'd given an old man hope- hope that perhaps, just perhaps, the son he'd loved so much might be able to open up enough to let another in, to love someone, to finally pick up the threads of his life that'd frayed into nothingness when they'd lost Saint John.

Of course, that hadn't been what'd happened at all. Instead Hawke had mourned - and Dom had no question he had. He'd endured two weeks worth of silence from the cabin, torn between desperate worry for his surrogate son and the uneasy fear white-clad government types would be swarming over Santini Air any moment, only to have Hawke return with the walls higher and stronger than ever.

_Typical Hawke._

And it worried Dom, not just as he saw his hopes for grandchildren and retirement someday slip away with this dark, new Lady String had brought into their lives, but also as he realized there was a very real possibility she might cost him his.

Not that he'd ever turn his back on flying with the kid, anymore than he had his old man. He'd lived more than his fair share of years and he'd never forgive himself if he didn't stick with him to the bitter end.

_And there again was the problem. If something happened to him - and here he had to agree grimly it was a much bigger possibility at sixty-eight than at thirty-four, then who would back Hawke?_

Mindlessly, he tapped the pen he held, rubbing rheumy blue eyes.

Young fool would probably blame himself, not seeing that sixty-eight year old legs ran slower than thirty-four year old ones no matter how you shook it, and that he'd gotten himself into this of his own free will.

_Experience might dodge you a lot of bullets, but luck sometimes ran faster than a man could. Unfortunately, Hawke didn't see that._

He sighed. He'd taught both boys to be responsible, to own what you did, but String somehow took it a little too much to heart5, thinking he could save the world, when sometimes a man couldn't even save himself. He didn't want to be a part of that guilt when and if it was ever him that went down.

But how to convince him? How to convince him that his choices were his own and no matter what the cost, he wouldn't ever choose to do anything else? That right there with Hawke was where he wanted to be. Flying that dark beauty was already in his blood and he couldn't imagine being anywhere else as long as he had breath in his body and String was flying her.

_And it was a good thing it was String flying her…_

He'd seen the destruction she could reek - the cost in devastation and life she could wield. A lesser man might be tempted.

Not his boy, though. He'd seen enough death and war to know what he held in his hand.

_She'd cost him dearly, too. Gabrielle dying in his arms was reminder enough of that._

Dom sighed, rubbing weary hands across his face. He had a nasty feeling she'd cost Hawke a whole lot more before all was said and done…if some good could come out of it, if there was a chance he could find out what'd happened to Saint John, then he deserved that much.

Years had taught him, there was a lot he loved about his country. There was also a lot she did wrong. How she'd treated that boy was criminal.

_He just hoped Hawke didn't get himself killed, righting it._

_Or him. _The pen clicked in his hand, bringing him back to the present; reminding him that despite his late night ruminations, time was marching on. Hawke would be in in a couple of hours and any chance for getting his thoughts down would be gone admist the shuffle of the day.

Gone like so many things he'd wished he'd said to Saint John, to String when they were both boys. No matter how he tried now, String refused to listen to.

_The boy wasn't just hard-headed, he was a rock._

Not that, that'd ever stopped him…Dom grinned. Hawke wasn't the only stubborn one. Resolutely, he reached for the sheet of paper.

It was an argument he intended winning. Preferably in person, of course. He'd like to think he had a few more good years of knocking heads in him, but if not, then he'd at least get the last word in.

And for once, String **would **listen. He wouldn't leave him any other choice.

He picked up the pen and began to write.


	2. Chapter 2

Letters Home -

Cait's Letter

String paused mid-stroke, eyeing the feisty red-head vacuuming out the chopper in front of him. Seemed hard to believe she'd only been here a couple weeks. Four weeks to the day, since she'd brought news of Jimmy's death.

_Not exactly news, he realized with a dry swallow. Facing down Bogan, it hadn't been much of a leap. _

Still, it'd hurt. Hurt to know he'd failed the man who'd pulled him outta Indian territory on more than one occasion. Hurt to know he owed a debt that could never be repaid. Hurt to realize if he'd only been a day quicker, Jimmy might've still been alive.

A vision of his friend raising a mug of beer swam across his vision.

He blinked, the whine of the vacuum cutting across his thoughts. Of course, if he'd been a day earlier, he might've never met Cait.

…and she might've been in Jimmy's place. Those miles and miles of desert out there stretched on forever and he didn't have to guess Jimmy hadn't been the first to disappear out there under Bogan's watch…given the opportunity he wouldn't have been the last either.

His jaw tightened.

_Yeah, they would've met somewhere, someday. It would've just been a matter of time. Polk County wasn't that big.  
_

Blue-green eyes raised abruptly as if sensing his thoughts, and Cait flashed him a bemused smile, as the blue eyes caught and held hers.

_He wouldn't have traded her. Not even for Jimmy…_

It was a disquieting thought, one that slammed its way through Hawke's gut, terrifying him in its potential and he froze, a dull flush climbing the tanned cheeks.

Abruptly, the whine of the vacuum ceased and Caitlin started to reach for the power switch, clearly catching something in his eyes.

Hurriedly, Hawke flashed her a quick, if embarrassed grin and dropped his gaze to the paperwork in front of him.

He didn't look up again.

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Cait sighed, frowning down at the top of String's downturned head, the short, dark silky strands falling forward as he studiously scrawled his way across the book work. For a moment there…

_If she didn't know better she'd think he was trying to handle her. He was clearly doing his best to ignore her._

Which, of course, made no sense. One moment, he was the open, generous guy she'd met working on the Stearman. A bit of a flirt, the practiced ladies man, but a lot of fun to be around. The next, closed off and clearly hurting, though damned if he'd ever admit it.

At first, she'd thought it was about the helicopter - there was clearly something up there, about his friend, but now, she wasn't so sure.

It was clear he and Dominic had saved Holly, and she was pretty sure it wasn't with the jet ranger. It was also clear they'd saved her butt again when Holly had gone off the deep end, even if String wasn't coping to it.

And she hadn't imagined the panic in his voice when he'd been calling to her to pull up, pull up - even if it had taken a while for it to register with her, as that big black helicopter had thrown itself into harms way between the jet ranger and the missile.

_It'd been her Hawke was scared for, not himself._

Not, of course, that he'd admit it, she grimaced.

Twice he'd saved her and twice he'd put her in danger. _Hawke drew trouble like a dog drew fleas. _Much like she did, if she was honest.

Cait sighed, clearly non-plussed. She still hadn't figured out the two men she'd trekked halfway across the country to find. Her leave of absence was up in less than a week…

Blue eyes flashed up, catching hers, a slow, self-depreciating grin spreading over the mobile lips.

Oh, who was she kidding? She was staying whether Dom offered her the job or not.

Cait grinned back. Guess she'd better get started on that letter home sooner rather than later.


	3. Chapter 3

Letters Home -

"Coming Home"

The incessant beep, beep of the machines grated on his nerves, frayed them within a hair's breaking point. And still he stayed. Raking frustrated hands through his hair, Stringfellow Hawke shoved to his feet, pacing the floor.

It was his fault she was there. A sidelong glance at the fair, freckled red-head in the bed reassured him Cait was still with him.

_No thanks to anything he'd done._

A thick, gauzy bandage covered one temple, the faintest traces of blood staining its edge.

Hawke drew a shaky breath. One minute she'd been right behind him, the next he'd turned just in time to see her fall, bullets raining like hail all around them. Lunging, eating dirt, he'd rolled bringing the .45 up, firing, emptying the clip 'til there was nothing left. Feeling the nick of bullet biting flesh, he'd kept going 'til the gun was empty, and then thrown it away, flinging himself across Cait and covering her with his body.

Rescue had been only moments away - Dom with Airwolf laying down a burst of canon fire that had settled the matter. His ears were still ringing from the repercussions.

He knew he's scared Dom, blood creasing the sleeve of his flight suit, too dazed and too shocky to move, too afraid to draw back and find he'd failed Cait as he'd failed every other woman in his life.

Even now, the lump in his throat threatened to choke him…

Pacing, Hawke strode the length of the room, feeling like a caged animal, replaying the scene in his mind no matter how hard he tried to shove it away.

Panting, Dom had pulled him back, the trembling in his hands evidence of his fear he'd lost the only son left to him. Relief had creased his face at the sight of Hawke's relatively minor wounds, only to slide away when he'd spotted Cait. String would swear he'd aged a decade in that moment, his face greying as he'd searched for a pulse.

_He'd found it. _Hawke thanked God for that, leaning his head back wearily, even as his mind replayed Dom bullying them both into action. Together, they'd hauled Caitlin's prone body aboard Airwolf, though in all fairness he couldn't remember much of the flight here, just the desperate sense of what it'd be like to have her ripped from his life, her shallow breathing seeming light and insubstantial in his arms. He'd been terrified they'd lose her before they could land.

He'd been a fool, thinking that if he didn't admit to himself what he felt, then nothing would happen to her.

_Yeah, and we see how well that worked out, stupid…_

Hawke groaned, dropping into the chair beside Caitlin's bed elbows propped loosely on his knees as he scrubbed weary palms against his face in frustration. Regret ate at him.

He'd known how Caitlin felt. He'd have had to be blind not to have seen it. He'd just thought she'd be safer if he didn't acknowledge it.

_If she died, she'd never hear him say the words._

Outside the window, a dark-haired nurse came up impatiently tapped on the glass, signaling to her watch his time was up.

Startled, Hawke nodded, all too aware he was about to get kicked out. He gave her an acknowledgement and she moved on.

Beside him, Cait's hand twitched lightly on the sheet and he reached for it, tracing her lifeline with calloused fingers before pressing the lightest of kisses there.

"Come home," he whispered. "Come back to me, Cait. I don't want to do it without you..."

The nurse tapped on the glass impatiently again.

Numbly, he started to rise to his feet to go.

Slender fingers slid through his, tightening at the last instant. "Stay, String," Cait whispered. "I'm not going anywhere."


	4. Chapter 4

Letters Home -

Saint John's Letter aka Lost in the Mail -

**July 4, 1969 - 1100 Hours**

Hunched over, Saint John Hawke huddled over his cot writing. Sweat dripped down his back and the air was acrid with the stench of gunpowder. To have said he was ready to go home would've been an understatement.

He was tired of the heat, the bugs - another one bit mercilessly at his neck and he slapped at it, the fighting and the war nobody seemed interested in winning.

Most of all, he was tired of watching his buddies die. He swallowed, thinking of Danny yesterday, getting shot in the gut and him, blood oozing over his fingers, thick and sticky as he tried to stop the flow. He'd lied to him, telling him it'd be okay, he was going to be okay and they'd both known it. He'd seen it in Danny's eyes and he'd felt it the instant he took his last breath.

The paper blurred in front of his eyes, and he hauled in a tight breath.

The fact that Saint John had shot the sniper that did it was cold comfort. Come down from his tree to survey his handiwork, he'd been on the two of them almost before he'd had heard him. The only thing that'd saved him was he'd stepped on a branch at the last instant and Saint John had swung around, emptying his handgun into him.

_He didn't know who'd been more surprised._

He just knew he'd come within a hand's breadth of dying yesterday.

_Which was what had brought him to writing this letter to String._

He'd signed up with Mace as part of a Special Operations Group. Mace because he liked the adrenaline rush and him because he wanted baby brother out of it. They needed a helicopter pilot and he had no intention of it being String. He'd seen too easily what a moment of distraction could cost you.

_Better he stuck with flying rescue missions, at least no matter how bad it got there, you had some idea what you were flying into._

For once, fate had seemingly conspired on his side, String's portion of the unit was on a three day leave when the position had come up, allowing him to take it without any argument. He had no doubt the kid was going to be hot when he found out.

But with any luck, the only way String'd be flying in there would be if they needed rescuing - something Saint John had no intention of ever needing if it was in his power.

Still…he couldn't shake the creepy feeling this mission was giving him. Common sense said it was the aftereffects of yesterday. Mortality had a nasty way of kicking you in the gut. Watching Danny die and almost doing the same himself would make anybody spooky.

_Superstition told him it was something else._

All he knew was, he was glad it was him going and not String.

And so, here he sat, writing a letter he hoped no one would ever read, least of all String. _After all, how do you tell your brother goodbye_?

Yet, he couldn't not do it. He'd seen too many guys go out and not come back. He knew how String'd been when their parents died.

Frowning, his hand hovered over the paper, fighting the urge to crumple it. _No, he owed his brother this much. _He shoved the note into an envelope before he could re-think it.

Pounding feet halted outside his tent door. "Sinj! Let's go!" Mace yelled. "They've moved up the timetable. Bird in the air in five!"

_No more time. No more second thoughts… _Scrawling his brother's name across the envelope, Saint John tossed it on the bed, consoling himself he could always rewrite it when he came back.

_And if not…_

Well, he grimaced wryly, scooping up his helmet. They'd at least find it when they came to pack up his effects…

Loping, he ran for the helicopter.

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**July 4, 1969 - 2200 hours**

Wind sweeping the camp with gale force winds, Stringfellow Hawke waited out the storm leant against a lone battle-scarred huey, waiting to go up, waiting to go back... _waiting to find Saint John._

Compassion darkened the steel grey eyes watching him. _Ten hours gone. _Not that it mattered. He was grounded, he just didn't know it yet.

_Four trips was enough. Okay, maybe not, but sometimes it didn't matter how many trips you made. Unfortunately, this looked to be one of those times._

_Nine men gone - two good pilots. One of which who belonged to the half-drowned chopper pilot he had left._

Rain poured down, turning the hard-packed dirt to muck. The sky overhead crackled with luminescent fire, the rumblings of approaching thunder loud in his ears. If anything, the storm was getting worse…

A thick hand started to reach for his poncho.

"Sappers in the wire! Sappers in the wire!" The desperate yell rang out across the camp. Even as he spun, a grenade lobbed across the razor wire.

Men scattered, ducking, yelling, cursing as shrapnel ripped into sandbags. Flames licked at outlying tents burning as Viet Cong clamored through the wire. Saint John's was among them.

Behind him, rotor wash swept across the ground, flattening everything in its path as the last remaining Huey abruptly swung into the air, guns blazing.

Smoke and mist whipped the wind as the helicopter joined the fray, and the war waged on.


End file.
